


He's Around

by firefly124



Series: Seasons of Love [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, background implied Destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 09:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13678929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefly124/pseuds/firefly124
Summary: You’re doing a bit of last-minute-before-storm shopping when you get a text that changes your plans for the next few days.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [thing-you-do-with-that-thing](http://thing-you-do-with-that-thing.tumblr.com/)'s [Seasons of Love - Heart of Winter Challenge](https://www.tumblr.com/search/sol+-+heart+of+winter+challenge) on Tumblr challenge to the song prompt “Hazy Shade of Winter” by The Bangles, hence the title. Playlist (including prompt song) [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/f5ocm9hfaq7hmpa6ha0rjdv0v/playlist/1Am3mrPnqBODCs79Xy1ua1).

You’re just about to head for the checkout line at the grocery store when your phone pings in your pocket. Just seeing who the text is from makes your heart skip a beat. When you swipe the screen for the message, you feel a ridiculous smile spread across your face. Two minutes ago, you’d had a roadmap for the rest of your day that you’re now more than happy to crumple up and throw away. You readjust your cart and head back to the produce department with a mental note to stop on the natural remedies aisle too.

On the way to the store, you’d thought the sky looked oppressive with its hazy grayness, backing up the weather forecast’s dire predictions. Now it looks lighter. Maybe it is, but you have a feeling the difference is you. It still looks like it might snow, after all. You hope it’ll hold off just a bit. You don’t mind being snowed in, but, well, you don’t want to be snowed in alone. Not when you’ve got an alternative on the way.

Once you get home, you quickly unpack and get organized. Most things get put away, and then you make short work of slicing and dicing. You sautée the onions and beef for a bit before throwing them in the crock pot, then add some broth, water, and the rest of the veggies. Your first instinct is to set it for the highest heat, but you’ve learned better over the years. Dinner is never the first thing on the menu, and it’ll be a couple more hours before he gets here anyway.

~*~

When you hear the familiar rumble of the Impala through the rising wind, you put together your final recipe of the day: shot glass rimmed in salt, filled with holy water, with a generous squirt of colloidal silver. You set it on the corner of the counter nearest the door. As you wipe down the already-clean counter, straighten your skirt, and peek in the cabinet that holds the first aid kit, you run through the mantra you’ve developed to prepare yourself for whatever you’re about to see: _He’s back. Doesn’t matter what else needs fixing. He’s back._

When he opens the door and steps inside, you sweep your eyes over him, relieved to see a distinct lack of visible injuries. Hell, he looks like he’s showered in the last couple of hours. You wonder if he and Dean had pulled into a truck stop to do exactly that. You wouldn’t put it past them.

Outside, Dean honks the Impala’s horn before pulling away, heading to the bunker or wherever he’s going today.

Sam steps purposefully across the rug covering the devil’s trap, shedding the few stray snowflakes that have gathered on his jacket as he pulls it off, tossing both it and his duffel bag to the side. He reaches for the shot glass and downs it with a gulp. You never quite understood that. Sticking his finger in it would be just as effective, and he always makes a face at the taste. But then, having proved he’s himself, Sam swoops you up into his arms and kisses you.

In seconds, you’re pinned against the wall, legs around his waist, and Sam is devouring your mouth as if he’d been gone more than a couple of weeks. Your heart twinges and you force yourself not to question his desperation.

_He’s back. Doesn’t matter what else needs fixing. He’s back._

As he moves his attention to your neck, you bury your finger in his hair and hold on tightly. The groan he lets out rumbles through your body before settling at your core. He slides a hand along your leg, starting from where you’re gripping him for dear life and quickly moving along your thigh, rucking your skirt out of the way, and grabbing hold of your ass. You whimper as he tears your panties away and struggles with the awkward angle to reach where he wants. You loosen your grip on his waist to give him more room, but all that does is make you slip down the wall a couple of inches.

“Bed?” you whisper in his ear. At his head shake, you try again. “Couch?”

After an indecisive second, Sam pulls back, catching you as you begin to fall and shifting you around till he’s carrying you bridal style into the next room and dropping you onto the couch. He falls to his knees and pulls you to him, lips finding yours again. You push his flannel shirt off his shoulders and grab his t-shirt, breaking the kiss so you can get it off him. He takes the opportunity to whip your blouse over your head before claiming your mouth again. His calloused hands scrape against your skin as he fumbles with the catch on your bra before pulling the scrap of lace away.

A rush of warmth floods through you as he pulls you snug against him, skin to skin, tucking your head under his chin briefly before lifting your face to his again. His eyes glitter with lust and something else you don’t want to put a name to before he shuts them and kisses you again. A hand finds its way back under your skirt, this time easily slipping a finger inside you as you shift your hips closer to the edge of the couch. He swallows your gasp as he begins pumping the finger in and out of you, thumb circling your clit. You arch into him and he kisses his way down your neck.

“Sam,” you gasp. “More.”

He dips his head and draws a nipple into his mouth, biting down just enough to hurt as he thrusts another finger inside you and curls them just so, sending bolts of lightning through you. His growl echoes through your body, ricocheting between his mouth and hand, and for a moment all you can do is ride out the combined sensations. Then you arch away, scrambling at his belt and jeans until you’re able to shove them and his boxers down, taking hold of his erection and using your thumb to spread the bead of precome over its head. 

You aren’t surprised when he pulls back from you, but instead of shucking his jeans the rest of the way off, he sits back on his heels and pulls you onto his lap. Your skirt gets a bit tangled along the way, catching on the zip of his fly, which is down by his knees, so you wriggle a bit, shrug it over your head, and toss it aside. You lock your eyes with his as you take him in hand and kneel up. His eyes are dark, now, pupils blown and no trace of the troubling sheen you’d seen earlier. He catches his breath as you guide him into you, letting it out with a moan when you have him fully sheathed. 

You hold him there for a moment, neither of you moving. Then, still keeping your eyes locked on his, you rise up slowly. His eyes flutter shut as you just as slowly ease back down. A twitch of his hips betrays just how much control he’s exerting to stay still for you. 

You knew the hunt had been a bad one, then. That’s the only time he does this quite this way, especially considering he hasn’t yet said a word. Just because you haven’t found any new physical scars, well, those aren’t always the worst anyway.

_He’s back. Doesn’t matter what else needs fixing. He’s back._

You pick up the pace slightly, and he moans. 

You kiss him then, just at the corner of his mouth, before tracking a line of kisses along his jaw. When you finally are close enough to his ear, you whisper, “Let it go, Sam.”

His hands, which have been at your waist, slide down to your hips, and his fingers grip you tightly. That’s all the warning you get before he thrusts up into you, ripping a moan from your throat. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, hanging on as he continues to thrust upwards. One hand leaves your hip, and for a second you’re not sure what he’s doing. Then Sam tilts to the side, slowing both of your fall with his outstretched arm and easing you both to the floor.

It takes a moment to shift everything into this new angle, and he pulls back from you long enough to wrestle his jeans down below his knees. Not long enough, however, to deal with his boots so that he could get them all the way off. Then he’s over you, lining himself up and thrusting home again as you wrap your legs around his waist once again.

Pleasure surges through you as you use the leverage of this position to pull him deeper with every thrust. It’s not long before his hips begin to stutter, and you’re so close to being right there with him. He wriggles a hand between you and presses his thumb against your clit, and that’s it. You’re gone, pleasure ripping through you as you call out his name and who even knows what else.

Moments later he follows, gritting out your name, the first word he’s said. You thread your fingers through his hair and pull him in for a kiss, a kiss that is somehow both as desperate as the one he’d first given you and yet tender at the same time. His breathing is ragged, and you half expect to feel a tear drop onto your cheek.

Instead, after a long few minutes, he pulls away and you both start putting yourselves back together. You have the easier time with the simple skirt and pull-over blouse. That was why you’d changed into them, after all. You turn your back while you clip your bra together, letting Sam salvage some of his dignity as he deals with his jeans situation. You hear him take a deep breath.

“You made dinner,” he says.

You turn to look at him, and he’s standing up, straightening his jeans and pulling on his t-shirt. You notice he doesn’t bother with the flannel just yet. He will, you think, once he cools down a bit. Your house is cozy enough, but does have some drafts.

“I did,” you agree. “You hungry now?”

“For whatever smells that good? Always.”

You roll your eyes and head back into the kitchen with him.

~*~

Over dinner, you manage to pry the basics of the case from him. He’d texted you bits and pieces along the way, but nothing to indicate why this hunt would’ve been particularly bad. Whatever it was, he still manages to gloss over it now.

It was bad this time, though. You know it. He knows you know it. But he’s not ready to talk about it, so you back off for the moment.

He does most of the washing up as the swirling white outside the window darkens. 

“You know,” you say, “I’d ask whether you know how long you’ll be home, but I have a feeling you may not be going anywhere for at least a day or two.”

He smiles down at the basin full of suds. “I’m okay with that.”

“Me too.”

~*~

Once you get to bed, Sam’s mood shifts again. He covers you with kisses, whispering endearments against your skin as he slowly takes you apart. After, he finally opens up in the safety of the darkened room. There’d been a child they couldn’t save, and Sam had almost died trying. Cas had healed him later, but only physically.

There’s nothing you can say to any of that. Not really. So you let him say all that he needs to, the recriminations, the survivor guilt, and you swallow your own guilt over being relieved that he made it home again. He wouldn’t be the Sam you loved if he didn’t run around trying to save other people at risk to himself. It wasn’t something you even listed among the things you love about him, but it was as much a part of him as his height and the sunflowers in his eyes. So you couldn’t wish it away, but you could be glad that he’d made it home in one piece again.

You let your eyes drift to the window, imagining the snow hidden by the curtains and the stars hidden by the snow. Behind everything, there’s always more.

_He’s back. Doesn’t matter what else needs fixing. He’s back._


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning dawns bright. Like really bright. Like opening the curtains is blinding because of the way the sun is glinting off all the snow. You can’t even tell where your yard meets the street.

“Guess you weren’t kidding about getting snowed in,” Sam says.

“Nope.” Whatever cases out there might want his attention, they can’t have him. You’re getting at least today and maybe tomorrow before he’s off into the wilds again. “So, breakfast?”

He helps chop up the veggies for the omelets you’ve decided to make. It’s kind of a miracle the power is still on, with the wind as bad as it sounded at times during the night, so you figure you’d best start with the things most likely to spoil if it goes out. It makes you smile to watch him at it, because you can still remember when he was awkward at this, like he wasn’t comfortable using a knife to chop instead of stab. Or, well, behead, but you don’t exactly use machetes in the kitchen.

“We should probably shovel some of that,” he says, after a minute.

“No rush,” you reply. “I don’t have to work until day after tomorrow.”

He doesn’t press the issue, so after breakfast, you make some hot chocolate and pop in a movie. You picked up _Valentine’s Day_ awhile ago, figuring it looked like about as far removed from monsters and fighting as anything could be. It might be a day early, but neither of you seemed to mind that. You weren’t wrong about it being un-monstery, but you also weren’t really sucked into the story, so you found yourself mostly just snuggling into Sam and nodding off.

You nodded off so completely that when you woke up, you were alone. The tv was off and you were wrapped up tight in a comforter. Your phone was still sitting in your bedroom on the charger, and it didn’t look like Sam had left you a note. You groaned as you heard the sound of snow being shoveled.

Shoveling snow had so not been on your to-do list for today, but apparently now it was. You trade your pajamas for long underwear, ski pants, and a sweatshirt, grab your jacket and mittens, and head out to join him, snagging the other shovel along the way.

He turns to look at you the second you open the door. He looks happy, you think. No, not just happy. Young. Like he probably should look if the weight of the world didn’t keep getting dumped on his shoulders. Today, he’s just a guy shoveling his driveway.

The snow is higher than your boots are tall, so you hope the ski pants are going to be enough to keep it from getting into them. Sam’s made a decent path from the door to the driveway and has about the first quarter of the driveway clear. 

“You do the car,” he says, once you’re close enough. 

You’d figured as much. So, you set to clearing the snow away from the car, at least enough to be able to reach up and start brushing it off. You think about making a crack about switching places, that this was more the job for long arms. Instead, you scoop up some of the snow on the hood and try packing it into a ball. It doesn’t hold very well, so you’ll have to wait till he’s closer.

Looking at where he is, you realize you’ve got a distinct advantage here. So you build up a small pile of snowballs, hidden by the car. They don’t quite all fall apart on you, so you count it as a win. For now.

The problem with your plan, you realize, is that if you start up the car, the heat of the engine will probably melt your mini arsenal. If you don’t, though, it’s going to seem kind of weird. Like, why wouldn’t you be starting the car up to make sure the battery stayed charged?

That actually decides you. Much as you want the both of you to stay put for at least another full day, the idea of the car battery being dead if you need worries you much more than the potential for melted snowballs. So, once you’ve got it reasonably dug out and brushed off, you climb inside and turn it on. In the rearview, you can see Sam has almost made it to the end of the driveway now. The plow hasn’t been down your street yet. Nothing new there. That was the price of living on a quiet street with few neighbors, and even those so far away you can’t see them from your property.

It’s irrational, you think, to be glad the street isn’t plowed at the same time you’re relieved that the car battery isn’t dead. If you need to get anywhere, both have you equally stuck. If anything, you could do more about the battery, considering the jump-starter Dean had given you for Christmas. But somehow, being snowed in felt safe, while having a dead battery felt … not. Go figure.

You kill the engine after a few minutes, not wanting to waste gas. You have half a tank, but it cost an arm and a leg, and you fill it with your own money, not fake credit cards, so you really aren’t into burning it for nothing. When you step out of the car, Sam is on his way back up the driveway.

“Hey,” he says. “So, I’ve kinda gone as far as I can, I think. I may have actually gone a foot or two into the street.”

You lean around him to peer down the driveway, and yeah, you’re pretty sure he did exactly that.

“Less of a snowbank for the plow to make,” you say, “whenever it gets here, that is.”

The other thing he’s done is shovel the driveway just about wide enough for your little car to get in and out. The Impala would never fit. You decide not to point it out. At least not right now, because Sam’s almost in range, and you need to edge around the front of the car without looking suspicious.

“Did you need to jump-start it?” he asks as you duck below the car’s nose.

“Nope,” you call over your shoulder. You straighten up quickly and lob one very powdery snowball at this shoulder where it splats unremarkably.

He laughs. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“That was just a warning shot, Winchester,” you say as you reach down for more.

Soon, there’s snow flying back and forth between you, neither of you bothering to even try to make snowballs out of it after the first couple of volleys. Sam’s got less snow all over him, but that’s just because he’s a bigger target, or at least that’s the story you’re going with. You try climbing up on one of the snow banks Sam’s created to get a tactically better position, but the snow didn’t pack well there either, and you end up falling down backwards into the powder.

“Shit, Y/N, you ok?” he asks. He leans down and reaches to help you up.

You take his hand and start to pull yourself up. Then you think better of it and use a trick he taught you to pull him down instead. He somersaults into the snow behind you with a grunt followed quickly by a laugh.

“I should’ve known better,” he says as he gets up, brushing himself off, finally as snow-covered as you are.

“You really should have,” you agree, getting yourself up. “Truce?”

“Truce,” he says. He reaches out to you and pulls you into a kiss. You melt into it … right up until you feel the snow going down the back of your neck.

~*~

An hour and one hot shower later (well, it started out hot, but taking a shower together has never been the best way to _save_ on hot water), you’re trying to decide on dinner. Spaghetti and meatballs seems to be winning, though Sam kind of wants to do a stir-fry, too. Eventually, you just end up with a sort of pasta primavera/spaghetti and meatballs hybrid dish that you just about finish getting on the table right before the lights flicker.

Sam’s shoulders tense, and his fingers twitch in a familiar motion.

“Bet the plow clipped a pole,” you say lightly, reminding him that the clunky thing had rumbled by just minutes before. 

The lights flicker again, and he goes for his bag by the door. You, on the other hand, grab the hurricane lamp in the living room, plopping it down on the kitchen table and lighting it. You wait till he’s got the shotgun lying across the seat next to him before sitting down, though.

“I know we’ve both warded this place from here to kingdom come,” he says, tight-lipped. He doesn’t continue the thought.

“Better safe than sorry,” you say. “Also, better eat up while it’s hot. If the power does go, we won’t be able to nuke anything.”

He nods and tucks in, eyes still on the alert. 

You curse the plow or whoever spoiled the playful mood of the day. Because he’s right, even if he can’t quite believe it. This house is warded nearly as well as the bunker, and the “nearly” is mostly down to having actual windows. Castiel had pronounced it impenetrable to angels and any other entities he was familiar with. Not even he could come here, and he’d stood firm on that. You’d tried to argue that it must be possible to write an exception for him into the warding, considering it was all in Enochian, but he’d refused to even entertain the idea, saying something about Sam’s peace of mind. You still weren’t sure what that was about, but apparently it still wasn’t enough. You weren’t seeing peace of mind right now, even though every rational cell in Sam’s brain has to be telling him that there could only be mundane explanations for the electricity to be acting up.

_He’s here. Doesn’t matter what else needs fixing. He’s here._

You count it a win when the lights actually stay on.

The mood cleaning up after dinner is tense, nothing at all like yesterday. It’s not fair, you think. He’s actually had a day free of ghosts and demons and monsters, and the complete normalcy of lights flickering after a snowfall has him wound up tighter than he’d been when he first came home. You extinguish the lamp and pull him into the living room. You do keep the lamp and matches with you, but that’s just in case, same as the shotgun full of salt rounds that he tucks under the coffee table.

Rather than fall asleep in front of another movie, you pull out the book he was reading before this last hunt and the one you started the other day. The comforter is still on the couch, the better for snuggling up together to read. It takes awhile. You’re almost three chapters further along in your book before you feel the tension start to leech out of his muscles as he finally, finally trusts that you’re safe and lets himself get lost in the latest book of the _Song of Ice and Fire_ series. Ironic, you think, that this is what he chooses to read. Either that or true crime books about serial killers. Not exactly a break from work, to your mind, but he enjoys them, and that’s all that matters.

This time, Sam’s the one who nods off first, and it’s a relief to see it. You’d been worried this would be one of those nights he couldn’t sleep at all. Of course, now you debate with yourself over whether to wake him up to go to bed or not. His neck is going to hurt like hell if he stays the way he is for too long, chin to chest and lolling to the side. Finally, you decide you’d rather he rest without sleeping but also without pain than to sleep here and wake up sore.

You gently pry the book from his hands and mark his place before setting it on the coffee table. You hope he’ll be able to sit and read it some more tomorrow. Then you gently shake his shoulder. He grumbles at first but lets you lead him into the bedroom and tuck him into bed. You leave the light off, hoping he’ll go right back to sleep and duck into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

His eyes are half-closed when you get back to the bedroom and slip between the sheets beside him. When he moves to roll over and drape an arm over you, he bites back a groan, sore from all the … shoveling? You shake your head. You definitely wouldn’t have expected that. Snow’s lighter than graveyard dirt, after all, but maybe it’s just different enough that his muscles are complaining. You pull back to reach into the bedside table, which draws a different sound of complaint from him.

“Shh, I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Roll over on your belly, though.”

He makes a questioning sound but does as you say. Meanwhile, you pull out a bottle of arnica oil an herbalist had given you for a sprain awhile back. You pour a little between your hands and let it warm as you shift to straddle his lower back, keeping your weight on your knees.

You slide your hands up under his shirt and spread the oil over his skin, focusing on his shoulderblades. One of these days, you think, you should get some formal massage therapy training, with the mess of knots he’s always got going on. For now, you focus on just gradually increasing the pressure here, backing it off there, based half on instinct and half on the sounds he makes as you work. 

You trace along an old scar here, follow the curve of a tight muscle there, his skin warming under your hands and the faintly floral smell of the oil occasionally reaching your nostrils. Eventually, the only sounds you hear from him are faint snores. You smile and climb back to your side of the bed, dipping to press a kiss to his temple. You wipe what little is left of the oil off on your pajamas. Most is gone, though, absorbed into his skin or yours. Before long, you follow him into sleep, one last thought flitting through your mind.

_He’s here. Doesn’t matter what else needs fixing. He’s here._


	3. Chapter 3

An angry buzzing sound cuts into your dream. Eventually, you figure out that it’s actually Sam’s phone, as he fumbles blindly at the bedside table for it. You spoon up behind him and throw an arm around his waist, as if that will keep him from leaving to deal with whatever that’s about.

“Yeah?” he mutters into the phone. “No shit, Dean. You two can deal with it just fine. Yeah, ok, jerk.”

He tosses the phone back on the table.

“What is it this time?” you ask. Can’t be much if he’s willing to let his brother handle it without him, even with Cas along. “Ghost? Vampire?”

“Snow,” Sam says with a snort. “Dean just figured out the bunker’s snowed in.”

You press your forehead against his back and laugh, though you’re not entirely sure how much of that is amusement and how much of it is relief. “That’s what happens when you don’t have windows.”

“Or look outside at all. I don’t even want to know what they’ve been up to cooped up in there.”

“Game of Thrones marathon,” you suggest. “Unless you actually think they got their act together?”

“Who knows. Thanks for the no-brain-bleach-required alternative, though.”

“So I’ve got you for at least another day?”

Sam turns in your arms and kisses your nose. “You’ve got me for as long as you want. You know that.”

You smile and force yourself not to sigh. He means it. You know that. At least, he thinks he does. 

“Someday,” you say. “When you’re ready to be everyone’s research guy instead of getting all hands on.”

“Need to finish digitizing the bunker’s archives for that,” he points out. It’s an old conversation.

“I’ve been working on it.” You nod towards the pile of books next to your desk. “Almost done with the Assyrian batch.”

“Maybe we can make a dent in that today,” he says, nuzzling at your ear. “Maybe even switch out for Babylonian once the bunker’s dug out.”

“That would move things along,” you agree, turning to catch his lips with yours, morning breath be damned. 

“You sure that’s how you want to spend Valentine’s Day?” he asks after a moment.

Getting another step closer to him retiring from active hunting? Hell, yeah, you want to say. Instead, you smirk and reply, “Who said that was all we were going to do?”

That gets a chuckle.

“First, breakfast,” you add. “For snow day part two, I’m thinking strawberry waffles.”

He grins, and you snuggle closer for one more minute before you get up to start the day.

_He’s here, and we’re going to fix it so someday he can stay. Here._


End file.
